My Long Lost Mate

By the time I reached my office—the agreed meeting place—the room was already clean of the mountains of paperwork, and Mr. Wickham was already waiting inside. Zeke gave me a curt bow before leaving the room, allowing us to talk in private. 

"Good evening, Mr. Wickham," I offered him my kindest smile, allowing him to take a seat on the sofa. "Please forgive me for my tardiness. I shouldn't have kept such an important man like you waiting. I'm sure you must be a very busy man," I said, and he only smiled awkwardly, not knowing what to say in response. Perhaps it was because he didn't know whether I was being sincere or sarcastic with my words. 

"Lord William, thank you for inviting me to your manor," he bowed down, his hands clasped together in front of his protruding belly. "It is truly an honor for me to be here." 

Though his voice appeared calm, the tension in his body was contradictory. The man was trying to cover his trembling hands by clasping them together, and it appeared that he was avoiding my gaze. Not hearing any reply from me, he raised his head and cast a peek at me but quickly averted his gaze away when he realized I was staring at him intently.

He kept his gaze low—as if he was searching for fallen gold on the ground. Compared to the first day I met him, he dressed a lot more modestly today. Not a hint of gold was seen on him, most likely because I'd stripped him off all his dirty-earned gold. The man was now as poor as a church mouse. Even the last few strands of hair he had on his head had vanished. I didn't mean for that to happen too.

"How are you doing these days, Mr. Wickham?" I took a seat in front of him, and he shortly followed after seeing me seated. "I heard you were busy packing your stuff?"

"I—I'm thinking of going back to my parents' house," he answered after a brief pause, coughing a little to buy himself some time to think of an answer. "Thank you for your concern, sir." 

Hearing him, I nodded, then proceeded to pour him a cup of tea prepared on the table in front of us. This kind gesture of mine made him shift uncomfortably in his seat, gulping down the lump in his throat every now and then. 

"Is the room too cold for you? Is that why you're trembling?" I asked, sipping on my own cup of tea. "Or are you perhaps nervous because you're alone with such a handsome man as myself?"

"Y-yes," he chuckled, scratching his neck. My question must have appeared as a chance for him to get on my good side, so he decided to use this time to praise my handsomeness which I've always been aware of. "It is because the Lord is too handsome that I'm nervous like this. It's my first time meeting a man as handsome as you, sir." 

"Don't worry. I'm sure it's everyone else's first time as well." It hasn't even been ten minutes since he arrived here, but Mr. Wickham already appeared to be a bit tired. I wonder why. "Now, don't you know want to know why I invited you for tea?" I asked, and it was the first time that he didn't avoid my eyes today. The look on his face looked like a mixture of anxiety and curiosity. "It is because I wanted to offer you a deal." 

"A deal?" 

"Yes," I nodded my head, smiling. "I wanted to thank you for all the effort you've given me while you were working under me. It's a token of my appreciation for your hard work." 

"W-what kind of a deal, sir?" 

"Oh, it's nothing much. I only needed you to answer a few of my questions, and then..." he stiffened again upon hearing my request, but his interest remained. It was obvious that his greed would always get the best of him. Of course, I shouldn't let his expectations down. "...I'll spare you your life in return." 

His dilated eyes looked at me in complete bewilderment, and now his hands were not the only ones trembling. "W-what do you mean by sparing my life, s-sir?" Seeing how I only smiled at him and said no more words, he knew I was not joking. The man then ran for his life. 

Mr. Wickham ran towards the door, wanting to do a little exercise to reduce the fat on his stomach, but was stopped by Zeke the moment he opened the door. 

"M-move!!" He tried to shove Zeke aside, but unfortunately, lacked the power to do so. Zeke stayed unfazed, towering over the man while Mr. Wickham was growing even more anxious as more time passed. He tried again for the second time and then third, fourth... each time failing miserably. "I said move!!" 

I quietly sipped my tea while watching Mr. Wickham attempt to escape, greeting him warmly when he was brought back to the sofa less than a minute after his foolish attempt to flee.

"How you saddened me, Mr. Wickham," I let out an exasperated sigh, feigning sadness. "How could you run from me? I thought you were happy to meet a handsome man like me. I suppose that was all a lie?" 

"W-why are you doing this to me, sir?" His voice trembled, and it looked like he was on the verge of tears. 

"What did I do?" I shrugged, ignoring his desperate cry. "I'm only offering you a deal. Answer my questions, and I'll let you live. Is it that hard of a deal? I'm sure even a toddler could fulfill this deal of mine." 

"T-that's..." he hesitated, having a hard time answering my simple query. I'm sure he was hesitating because he'd made a deal with the witch, so should he answer me, he'd die by the hands of the witch—but should he not, then he'd die by my hands. 

"You do have an idea of the questions I'm about to ask you, right?" I asked, and I knew the answer without even hearing it directly from his mouth. I offered him my hand, hoping for him to shake it with his own. But the man seemed to have difficulty doing so, so I offered him a little help. If he refused to make a deal with me, I would simply force him to do so. 

"Mr. Wickham, how many fingers do you have?" 

Taken aback by the irrelevant question, Mr. Wickham raised his eyes from the ground, meeting my eyes for less than a second before returning them to the ground again. 

"T-ten, sir," he answered, but not before confirming that he indeed had ten fingers. 

"Do you know what will happen to them if you fail to answer my questions?" I beckoned for him to come closer to me, asking him to hold out his hand. Despite his unwillingness, he did as told, then ended up with one of his hands pinned against the table. I pulled one of his fingers backward, pulling it in the direction it was not supposed to be. "You'll go home with ten broken fingers." 

Even only after a little pull, Mr. Wickham screamed as if I'd broken his finger. 

"S-s-sir, I really don't know anything!!" He cried desperately, struggling to free his hand from under my grip. "P-please let me go."

"But I haven't asked any questions," I shrugged. "How can you be so sure that you won't know anything about what I'm about to ask? Doesn't that usually mean the opposite?" Having made a slip of the tongue due to his nervousness, Mr. Wickham found himself in an even direr situation. "Now, enough chit-chat. Tell me everything you know about the villagers." 

"T-the villagers?" He gulped, already expecting me to ask about them. "T-they're doing well, sir. Aside from the poverty, they are—AAAAHHHH!!"

"Don't play dumb, Mr. Wickham," I snapped his thumb. Why was he so adamant about concealing the facts from me? Was the witch that much scarier than me? That can't be right. "You do know I was talking about the villagers in the village next to yours. Careful, you'll break a finger each time you tell lies."

"S-sir, I-I can't tell you anything," he said in between his cries. He then kneeled before me, begging me to let him go. "T-the witch—she's going to kill me if I tell you what I know."

"And do you think I won't kill you if you don't tell me now?" I pulled on his other finger, threatening to snap it into two. "I believe you should be more concerned about your current situation rather than your future. After all, you might not make it through the day."

Being the kind man I am, I gave him some time to think over his decision—but, of course, I would only accept the answer that I wanted to hear. I gave him five seconds to consider his answer, but as I waited for those five seconds to pass, my shoe came into contact with something wet on the ground.

I looked around for what might have suddenly dampened the ground and realized that not only were Mr. Wickham's eyes crying, but his pants were too. 

"I see that you've got a death wish."